


Sunnydale Noir

by SharpestRose



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-01
Updated: 2011-07-01
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:55:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith, the tough-talking PI.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunnydale Noir

I'm trying to quit smoking. It's a bitch. I'm chewing a toothpick that taste like peppermint, but it's splintering up in my mouth and isn't doing a whole lot to help with the cravings. Tara doesn't say a word when I sneer and swear at her for convincing me to give it up, just puts my coffee down and walks back out to her desk.

I pour whiskey into the mug, enough to make the drink so irish it would probably make Doyle green in the gills. The guy talks big, doesn't put his money where his mouth is most of the time. His visions are a crock more often that they're a help, but I keep him on the payroll because somebody has to watch out for him, keep him in cheap drink and cheaper hookers.

Not that I'm one to preach on that count.

Tara, now there's one who's got the sweet life. She works for me, answering my phone and filing and making coffee until her skin smells like sugar and cream. Her girlfriend is a waitress at the Blue Peacock, sometimes when business is good I take the pair of them out for dinner and dancing. Dawn, the kid's name is. Nice enough. Makes Tara happy.

Nasty trouble last year, though, with Dawn. Got herself mixed up in some nasty stuff. Got through on the skin of our teeth, too close for anybody's comfort. Still, got to hand it to her, for a self-styled underworld god Glory was a demon in the sack. Ben wasn't so bad himself, either. That night was the one perk in the whole lousy situation, and it made it easier to eliminate the problem.

Dawn and Tara are in love, I think. They sure act like they are. Sometimes it gets me down, watching them whisper in each other's ear and shimmy-shake on the dancefloor.

Now I'm maudlin, thinking about it. Guess I'm still holding a torch for Anya. She was crazy as a cut snake, swore up and down that what she did was vengeance. I call it being a hired gun, but I guess people gotta tell themselves what lies they need to hear. The son of a bitch Harris took her down when the cops raided Skinny's. I broke his kneecap, but sometimes I remember Anya's face and don't feel like I got enough closure.

Well, there's one cure for all my ills. I tell Tara to take the afternoon off and go cook Dawn something nice for dinner. She asks if I want to come over but that's the last thing I need, watching those two gaze at each other by candlelight and eat gnocchi with red wine. I'm trying to make myself feel better here, and the recipe for that involves a packet of smokes instead of this stupid goddamn toothpick, and some decent whiskey that doesn't taste like the wrong end of a cat, and a visit to my favourite street corner.

Oh yeah, I love the high life.

Annie's there, same as always. It's barely four in the afternoon but I don't think she'd stop working for hell or high water, much less daylight. Says she's saving up for something, but I think it all ends up in a spoon over a candle to tell the truth. She's got that look, the hungry look. It's always easy to spot a junkie if you know what to see.

I'm one of her regulars. She likes me, I guess, as much as she likes any of her janes. She calls me that, sometimes. Jane. If I ask her to. Sometimes I just use plain old Faith. One I asked her to call me Tara, but that made me depressed as hell and I ended up sending her off with fifty bucks for nothing more than a couple of kisses.

I asked her once if Annie's her real name. She shrugged and said 'In a way.' which is as good an answer as any, I suppose.


End file.
